


a full commitment's what i'm thinking of

by Piyo13, smolmerci



Series: we're no strangers to love [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 00:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17570990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolmerci/pseuds/smolmerci
Summary: Phichit and Chris spend the holidays together in Bangkok, and Chris has an important question to ask.





	a full commitment's what i'm thinking of

**Author's Note:**

> this happens between chapters 9 and 10 of we know the game, in case you're wondering!

They arrive in Suvarnabhumi International Airport after an indeterminate amount of hours on three different planes, and Chris is certain the bags under his eyes are at least as heavy as the ones in his hands.

Phichit’s run off to the bathroom, leaving Chris to grab their suitcases—easy enough, as Phichit’s suitcase is giraffe-patterned. Chris is using his old skating one, a steel-grey affair with a sparkly pink ribbon that Josef had tied to it years ago for identification purposes and no one could be bothered to remove.

Chris pulls them both off the carousel, and then looks around quickly. Phichit’s still nowhere in sight. Good.

Using his boyfriend’s absence as cover, Chris shuffles his hand into the side compartment of his suitcase. He hadn’t wanted to send it through security on the off-chance that his bags needed to be searched and Phichit saw it, but he also isn’t particularly trusting of the international flow of baggage, not since he was thirteen and the airline company misplaced his skates for an entire two days.

Luckily, there’s no reason to worry. Chris’ fingers close around the small velvet box. He opens it briefly, just to make sure. The ring inside is still there, beautiful and shiny and hopefully, soon to be on Phichit’s finger.

...as soon as Chris finds the right moment, of course.

He snaps the box shut and sticks it into his carry-on before zipping everything back up and scooting to the side to await Phichit, who shows up not long after, rubbing his stomach and grimacing.

Chris greets him with a kiss, a faint flutter in his chest at the thought of Phichit and rings.

“You doing okay?” he murmurs as Phichit leans into him for a hug.

“Goddamn airplane food,” Phichit says in reply. He’s not overly distressed, though, based on the hand that’s finding its way under Chris’ clothes, and so Chris feels completely justified in blowing a raspberry against his neck, which causes Phichit to squeal and bat him away.

“You sure it was the airplane food and not the three coffees you had in Tokyo?” he teases. “Did you actually even sleep at all?”

The last stretch of their flight had been seven or so hours. Chris had been awake for maybe fifteen minutes, total.

Phichit shrugs, then pokes Chris in the side, right where he’s ticklish. “It was the airplane food,” he says. “I had way more coffee in college.” He grabs his bag and heads off to the exit, Chris in tow and enjoying the view.

“Ah, _mon chou_ , you worry me.”

“I don’t know, Chris,” he says, with the characteristic twinkle in his eye that spells trouble for Chris. “I’ve heard some interesting things from Victor…”

Chris laughs, and they go to search for Phichit’s family hand-in-hand.

* * *

The plan is to stay in Bangkok for three weeks over the December holidays. Phichit will have to train a few times, but it’s not like Chris has ever objected to skating, anyways, so that works out fine.

The plan was not, however, to be woken up after a measly three hours of jet-lag-induced sleep in order to be dragged through two hours of truly frightening Bangkok traffic to a small fighting arena.

Chris is finally awake enough by the time Sunya and Mali are parking to ask where they are.

“Sorry for waking you up, but this will be worth it, I promise!” Phichit says, looking offensively awake despite the fact that he was definitely on the same flight as Chris. _How._ “We’re gonna see some Muay Thai, apparently some of the top fighters are here tonight!”

“Some of the top fighters? _Some?_ ” says Sunya, and then launches into a tirade about the current field, weight classes, the night’s matchups, and who he’s going to bet on. Chris gives up following about five seconds later.

Phichit leans over to whisper to Chris. “Lumpinee is also the only place where it’s legal to gamble—kind of fun, actually, though my mom only ever lets Dad bring 500 baht because he gets too into it.”

“I’ve never seen Muay Thai before, actually, is that going to be a problem?”

“Not at all,” Phichit says, waving a hand airily. “If the one guy doesn’t get up, it means the other’s won.”

“...right.”

Getting in goes faster than Chris would have thought, given the crowd of people around. The stadium is a bit smaller than he expected, but for that, it’s packed. In the center is the square ring with padded ropes, and a TV screen above it is playing a montage of who will be fighting later.

Right outside the ring, on the ground, are individual seats decked with blue padding and laminated numbers attached to the back. Several of those seats are still empty, but those that are filled seem to be overwhelmingly foreigners. The stands where Phichit, Chris, Sunya, and Mali are standing, however, are filled to bursting with people, most of whom look and speak Thai. Chris is, in fact, probably the only one who doesn’t.

They don’t have too long to wait. Within ten minutes—spent mostly with Phichit trying to explain the rules of Muay Thai to Chris, Sunya joining in every once in a while to correct something—two fighters are ushered into the arena, one decked in blue and the other in red, and a lively tune starts playing over the loudspeakers.

The fighters warm up and do some fancy dance moves that Phichit informs Chris is a way of respecting the ring and the audience. The referee checks that everyone’s wearing their jockstrap, and then the fight begins.

At first, the fighters dance around each other, occasionally feinting with a punch here or a kick there. Then the red fighter launches an onslaught of kicks and knees, and the two grapple each other into the cordons of the ring before the referee breaks them apart.

The bell rings, signalling the end of the first round, and the coaches massage their fighters and wet them down with liberal use of water. Bare except for tiny shorts, gloves, and wraps around their feet, Chris has a fleeting mental image of Phichit dressed as such, glistening under the lights.

He shoves that thought down before anything _else_ can come up.

“Anyways,” Phichit says casually, leaning fully against Chris’ shoulder and entwining their fingers, “it doesn’t usually get real good until round three, which is when the bets really start to get going.”

Chris is distracted by his need to soak up Phichit’s body heat, so his reply is a few seconds late. The smile Phichit gives him says he knows exactly why. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, the first two rounds are the fighters getting used to each other and showing off for the people placing bets, to like, evaluate them and stuff. And then once the bets are cast, it’s time for them to go all out!” There’s probably some innuendo in there somewhere, Chris just needs to find it.

“Ah huh.”

Phichit ends up being right, though—the fighting escalates quickly as the rounds progress, as does the betting. Chris can’t understand head nor tails of it, everyone (including Phichit) shouting in Thai and waving their hands around, to catch the bookie’s attention or cast a bet Chris isn’t sure, and cheering and booing their chosen fighter. Chris finds himself distracted from the fight by the sight of Phichit, more often than not.

It’s not like they haven’t been seeing each other regularly; they’ve actually been interacting more than usual, what with Chris no longer being in the competition circuit. He’s essentially made Phichit’s room in Detroit his home base, flying out to choreograph or help Josef coach as needed.

And then there’s a huge shout, and Chris tears himself away from Phichit’s beauty just in time to see the red fighter stagger a few times before falling to the ground, unable to stand up. The screens above the ring show a replay—a solid kick to the head that makes Chris wince.

The fight is called for the blue fighter.

“Okay, so now that you’ve figured it out,” Phichit says, Sunya smiling behind him and Mali rolling her eyes with exasperated affection, “we fully expect you to start betting next match.”

Chris laughs. “I don’t have any money,” he replies, pulling out his pockets to illustrate his point. He’d considered exchanging some money at the airport, but ultimately decided against it, which he kind of regrets now. Oh, well.

Phichit leans in, whispering close to his ear. One of his hands skates down, brushing over Chris’ stomach. “I’m sure there’s other things you could bet.” Sunya and Mali suddenly find themselves interested elsewhere. Chris smiles, turning just enough to kiss Phichit’s cheek.

“Well then, Mr. Chulanont, name your price.”

* * *

Chris, for his part, is thoroughly lost.

Phichit, on the other hand, seems to know exactly where he’s going, despite the lack of street signs or, well, actual _streets._ They keep turning from alley to alley, dodging the occasional rogue scooter but for the most part avoiding all cars. At one point they cross over a rickety wooden bridge and get judged by a heron that’s trying to fish in the polluted stream below.

“Where are we going, again?”

“Somtum!” Phichit replies gleefully. “I mean, you can get it anywhere, but I’ve been coming here since I was a kid because they have the best somtum here. And the lady who runs the place is super nice, too!” Somtum is… something. Chris forgets what, but Phichit had mentioned it to him at least twice on the plane ride to Bangkok. Whatever it is, it should be good. “They also have…” Phichit pauses, mumbling something in Thai. “Like, rice around a banana and then it’s wrapped in a banana leaf and grilled? Anyways, it’s delicious, we’ll get some after lunch!”

“Lead away, _Schatzi,”_ Chris says. There’s no one else Chris would rather follow. Phichit turns back, pulls Chris down for a quick kiss, and then takes Chris’ hand and continues onwards.

Their destination is only a few more turns away—nestled between several buildings is a small plaza, complete with several trees and a branch of river running along the far end. Set up over the dirt and broken cobblestones is a garden tent, under which are a series of worn picnic tables and several small but colorful plastic chairs. Along one side of the tent are two food carts; one sizzling and wafting delicious smells across the entire courtyard, the other replete with a variety of fruits and vegetables.

There are a few scattered people eating at the tables, as well as an old lady sitting next to one of the food carts. As soon as she sees Phichit, she stands up and starts shouting in Thai, her smile missing a few teeth but nonetheless happy and kind.

Phichit bows deeply to her before getting pulled into a hug, and the two converse for a few minutes before Phichit turns to Chris. He says something else in Thai and Chris catches his name, and waves.

“Chris, this is Sunatda, she’s been selling the best somtum in Bangkok since forever. She was practically my after-school care when my parents were busy.” Phichit says it all with great sincerity. He clearly cares for her, just as she cares for him.

Chris bows, hands clasped together, and stutters out a basic Thai greeting. “Sawatdee kap.”

Sunatda tutters and looks overjoyed, turning her beaming smile on Chris before launching into a tirade of Thai that he has absolutely no chance whatsoever of interpreting. He just smiles winningly, and that seems to be enough, because then Sunatda turns back to Phichit and talks as him, instead. Then she says something in a very serious tone, which Phichit reacts to placatingly, and then she gestures towards Chris. The command here is clear: translate. Chris waits.

“She, uh. She says you better be treating me well, or else,” Phichit translates, with a wink and a grin; still, his shoulders hunch just the slightest bit in embarrassment. Chris knows that he, at least, is blushing.

“Tell her I would never dream of anything else,” he says, and watches Sunatda as Phichit translates. As Phichit finishes, she nods approvingly, and takes Chris’ hands to pat them. Then she says something else to Phichit while she heads to her sizzling cart, and Phichit replies. The only words Chris manages to decode are ‘somtum’ and ‘thank you’, and then Phichit leads him to a table.

The paint is worn and the utensils are mismatched, but it has character. Chris likes it.

“So this is where you spent a lot of time, then?” he asks.

Phichit nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! Before I started skating super seriously, I used to come here after school—my school is just a few streets away. Prija also came here, but we moved houses before Chaisai and Anada could join us. I haven’t had time to come here in forever, though.” He chuckles to himself. “She says she watches all my competitions, though.”

“As she should!” Chris says, proudly. Phichit smiles up at him, fond and mildly disbelieving.

“You’re just biased.”

“Your medal rack isn’t,” Chris replies, and Phichit’s smile softens. He holds out a hand, and Chris grabs it.

Phichit’s about to say something else, but then the food arrives—two bowls and a plate, which Sunadta leaves with something that must be a ‘bon appetit’ before going off to deal with some other customers.

The plate is half rice half some kind of meat, still steaming and smelling mouth-wateringly delicious, and the bowl is full of what Chris can only assume is somtum. There’s also two bottles of water and two glasses of a yellowy juice which smells like mango. Chris rubs his hands together in anticipation.

“Alright, dig in!” Phichit says, pulling some chopsticks from the utensil bin and stuffing his mouth full of somtum. He moans contentedly.

“Remind me what it is, again?” Chris finally asks, searching for a fork. It’s not that he _can’t_ use chopsticks, it’s just that he doesn’t trust himself with them.

“Papaya, some other stuff. You don’t actually eat the tomatoes, by the way, they’re there for flavor. And the little orange things are tiny shrimp.”

Upon inspection, the tiny orange bits are, indeed, shrimp. Phichit takes another enthusiastic mouthful, and Chris has never really had issues putting things of all sorts in his mouth, so he follows suit.

At first, it’s interesting. There’s something… almost fruity? More vegetable, really. And the sauce is pretty good, coupled with the hint of seafood from the shrimp.

Then it becomes a mistake.

Chris’ entire mouth is on fire. “Haaaaaaahhhhhhhh,” he breathes, just as Phichit starts to laugh. Chris does his best to swallow but it’s somewhat difficult, especially when he can feel the somtum burning the entire way down.

His asshole’s going to hurt later and _not_ for the reasons he would like it to.

He flaps ineffectually at his mouth for a few seconds, before Phichit—laughing, a traitor—opens a water bottle and slides it over. Chris drains it in its entirety, as well as a glass full of mango juice that he can’t actually taste because his taste buds have spontaneously combusted, before his mouth stops burning. Phichit still has tears of mirth in his eyes when Chris glares at him.

“I think every single one of my taste buds just died,” Chris says. Speaking makes his tongue tingle.

“Sorry, sorry,” Phichit says, not sounding very sorry at all. “I kind of forgot how spicy she makes it.”

“‘Forgot’,” Chris says, air-quoting Phichit. Phichit shrugs.

“Not my fault you have a weak tongue.”

“That’s definitely not what you said last night,” Chris shoots back petulantly, smirking when Phichit almost chokes.

* * *

“Chris!”

Phichit yanks Chris back by the collar of his shirt. It’s the fifth time today that Chris almost sees his life flash before his eyes in the form of a car or scooter laden with three people zoom past the spot he was just about to walk into, and from the wrong direction to boot.

“We drive on the left, here,” Phichit scolds, carefully settling Chris’ shirt back down and smoothing it with his hands. Chris leans forward so that he’s all but draped onto Phichit.

“Your roads are terrifying and wrong.”

Phichit pats his shoulder comfortingly. “There, there.”

* * *

They’ve just returned from a 7-11 run—Chris had run out of shampoo and also needed some chocolate, because he's Swiss, so shoot him—when Chris notices something odd.

The house is… quiet.

Phichit is looking at his phone when Chris strolls over and hugs him from behind, propping his chin up on Phichit’s shoulder while he finishes sending off the message.

“So, mom and dad are gonna be away a few days to film a special segment, the twins are staying over at a friend’s house for studying, and Prija’s prepping for a conference and won’t be back for a while.”

Chris slowly raises his brows, a smile spreading across his face. “So you’re telling me we have the place all to ourselves?” he says softly, biting on Phichit’s ear and pressing himself closer. Phichit grinds back into him before tossing his phone on the couch and turning around.

His hands cup Chris’ face as he kisses him soundly, barely a preamble before Phichit’s tongue is licking into Chris’ mouth and Chris himself is left breathless, with the beginning of a hard on.

“We _do_ have the place all to ourselves,” Phichit says, his voice low and seductive, his eyelashes batting and his lips full and shiny from their kiss. Then he breaks character and giggles, and Chris smooches the tip of his nose.

“Whatever shall we do?” Chris says, continuing the game, his fingers already up the back of Phichit’s shirt and running along his spine.

Phichit, whose arms are now around Chris’ neck, shimmies his entire body flush against Chris’, the hardness beneath his clothes making itself well apparent. “I’m sure I can think of a few things, if you know what I mean.”

Chris hums and pulls Phichit even closer, running his hands up along Phichit’s flanks and under his shirt. He kisses the side of Phichit’s neck and enjoys the small shiver that results. “Do tell.”

“For starters,” Phichit says, grinning, his breath catching as Chris’ hands trace over his nipples, “you can take me to bed.”

Chris immediately cups Phichit’s butt and lifts him up, reveling in the switch in height as Phichit laughs, startled but not surprised, and looks down at him, his wonderfully muscular legs wrapping tight around Chris’ waist. Chris could die happy between those legs.

Careful of Phichit’s head, Chris walks them into the bedroom they’re sharing while here, and sets Phichit on the bed. Or tries to, at any rate—Phichit refuses to let go, and ends up pulling Chris down on top of him. Chris lands with an _oomph_ , but soon distracts himself with pushing aside the strap of Phichit’s tank top and nibbling at his collarbone.

“Hmm,” Chris says, grinding his hips down. Phichit squirms, his own hips bucking slightly. Chris sits back. “You’re wearing too many clothes.” He delights in the way Phichit slides out of his shirt and boxers, all in one go, eager and impatient as always. His cock curves upwards as he lays back down, and Chris takes in hand, giving it a light squeeze.

Phichit arches into the bed. “Mm, Chris,” he moans, voice already breathy. Loathe though he is to let go of Phichit’s dick, Chris does so in order to crawl up and kiss Phichit square on the mouth. Phichit tangles his fingers into Chris’ hair and gives a soft tug that has Chris groaning, his own erection noticeably more interested at that.

Eventually, Chris breaks the kiss, taking a moment to breathe and to look into Phichit’s eyes.

He already knows he’ll never get enough of them.

He’s ready to spend the rest of his life with Phichit, in Phichit’s arms and gazing into his eyes.

He’s just… got to ask him.

Chris abruptly changes mental topic by kissing along Phichit’s jaw, and then along his neck, pausing just long enough to leave a hickey on his collarbone before continuing down. He licks Phichit’s nipple and keeps moving, feeling the toned muscles shifting under his lips. Phichit’s making soft little noises of pleasure, his hands touching Chris wherever they can, and so Chris takes his time in appreciating his body, honed by the grueling competitive season.

Phichit’s beautiful, there really is no other word for it.

Beautiful, and intelligent, and funny, and clever, and—

Chris bites Phichit’s hipbone right under the V, and Phichit rolls his hips up. There’s a smattering of dark bruising on Phichit’s right hip, running intermittently down to his knee, the signs of multiple jumps gone wrong.

Chris kisses the bruises gently, barely touching them, and Phichit props himself up on his elbows to see. He shrugs a little, and Chris smiles back. This is a part of the sport as much as actual ice is; Chris just doesn’t want to hurt him. He pulls away from the bruise and nuzzles the inner thigh closest to him, instead. Phichit shivers as Chris’ scruff brushes against the sensitive skin.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Chris ducks his head against Phichit’s thigh, kissing lightly while he waits for the ability to speak to return to him.

“I love you too,” he says. Then he bites Phichit’s leg gently, before trailing kisses up and up until meeting Phichit’s cock. He licks a stripe up the underside and swirls his tongue around the tip, placing his hands on Phichit’s hips when he starts to twitch too much.

With a single move, Chris takes Phichit down all the way, humming around the sensation of Phichit’s dick pushing against the back of his throat. Phichit gasps loudly, shaking a little, his legs tense where they bracket Chris’ ears.

Dying happily between those thighs. Yup. Got that one covered.

* * *

Phichit puts his phone away and gestures expansively to the park unfolding in front of them. “So what do you think?”

Even only a few meters in, the noises of the city are muffled and quiet, and Chris takes a deep breath. “It’s nice,” he says. “Calm.” Phichit smiles at him, then holds out his hand for Chris to take.

“This is where I go jogging when I’m in Bangkok,” he says, pointing out the marks painted onto the wide path—0.1KM. “It helps me keep track of how far I’ve gone.”

Chris shakes his head and bumps his shoulder into Phichit’s. “I still can’t believe you would willingly go jogging in this weather.” The way Phichit scrunches up his nose is adorable, and for a second Chris’ stomach turns with the thought of the question he still needs to ask.

“Treadmills suck,” Phichit says, so definitively that Chris has no choice but to smile.

“Do they?”

“Yes. That was the worst part about Detroit. Too cold to leave the house in winter!”

“...and in fall, and in spring…”

“Christophe Giacometti, I swear—” Suddenly Phichit cuts off, head tilted. He gives a little hop of excitement and then starts dragging Chris forward.

“Um?”

“Zumba!”

Sure enough, as they reach a fork in the road, the music—Chris wouldn’t know how to nail down a genre, but there is definitely a beat to it—makes itself clear, as does the massive crowd of people all dancing along. There must be at least a hundred and then some. Half-laughing, Phichit joins in at the back, throwing himself into the moves with enthusiasm. Chris pauses only long enough to take a photo before joining in.

They dance their way through two songs before Chris taps out, out of breath and drenched in sweat. The person at the front, who’s leading the zumba, is still jumping around and shouting out moves in Thai. The sheer energy of it all seems endless.

Chris watches appreciatively as Phichit dances to one more song—Phichit’s still in mid-season shape, and it shows, even in casual city wear. When he’s done, he walks over to Chris, fanning his T-shirt and smiling widely. There’s a rivulet of sweat running down his neck and vanishing into the collar of his shirt. Chris desperately wants to lick it.

“Well that was fun,” Phichit says, either unaware of the effect he’s having on Chris, or else fully cognizant of it and playing it up. Knowing Phichit, Chris has to say it’s the latter.

“Yes,” Chris replies, leaning down to kiss Phichit. He swipes his tongue at the seam of Phichit’s lips, but then pulls back with a wink when Phichit tries to deepen the kiss.

They walk around the park for a little bit longer—Chris only almost gets run over by joggers twice—and count the number of stray cats that linger by the bushes (it’s sixteen, but Chris only gets pictures of fifteen of them. He makes a mental note to forward at least two of the pictures to Yuri Plisetsky, one of the few who _gets it_ when it comes to cats). Finally, though, the sun has set completely and Chris’ stomach audibly growls.

Phichit squeezes his hand lightly. “Food?” he asks.

Chris squeezes back. “Food,” he replies.

* * *

“Welcome,” Phichit says, throwing his arms out wide and almost hitting a stranger in the face, “to Chatuchak!”

“I see,” Chris replies, looking around. It certainly is a sight. As far as he can see in any direction, the open-air market stretches on and on. Towards the middle, the stalls are covered. People from all over mill about, dozens of languages ringing out in the air. “So this is the famous JJ Market?”

“Yup!”

“Has JJ ever been here?”

“Nope! I offered to bring him if he’s ever in town, though. Anyways, Prija said she’ll pick us up when we’re done, so for now—shopping!” Chris laughs happily as Phichit takes his hand and drags him off to a stand full of hilarious Thailand T-shirts. Chris promptly buys three for Victor. They leave the stall with a bag swinging from Chris’ hand, his other held tight with Phichit.

Chris is the next one to pull them to a stop, at a small cart that’s offering mango and sticky rice. Chris squeezes Phichit’s hand and hands him the shopping bag. Phichit looks at his, confusion and a touch of consternation written across his face.

“Okay, you wait here, I’m going to do this on my own.”

Phichit’s face softens immediately into a smile, and Chris refrains from kissing him only with the knowledge that if he starts, he’s not going to stop. “You know that everyone here will at least speak business English, right?”

“That’s not the _point_ , Phichit!” Chris says, pressing a hand to his sternum. Then he relents, and gives Phichit a quick kiss on the cheek. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

The wave Phichit gives him as he leaves is cute. There’s a few people in line, and so Chris rehearses mentally while he waits, the appropriate amount of cash already in his pocket and counted out, because numbers officially suck and his determination to learn Thai doesn’t extend quite _that_ far.

“สวัสดีครับ,” says the person behind the cart, smiling.

“Uh, sawatdee kap,” Chris replies. He kind of wants to call Phichit back already. “Ma muong… sang?” he holds up two fingers. Just in case. He already knows his accent is strong in English, and he’s been learning that since he was about eight… he’s honestly a little scared to ask Phichit what his accent in Thai sounds like. The person behind the cart’s smile widens.

“That is 80 baht,” they say, easily slicing two mangoes into a small container already loaded with two scoops of sticky rice. Chris grins sheepishly, handing over the appropriate bills.

“Thank you,” he says, and remembers to give a _wai_ at the last minute. The salesperson returns it briefly before moving on to the next customer.

Chris takes his sticky rice and mango and returns to Phichit, who tucks his phone away and kisses Chris as soon as he approaches.

“How’d it go?” Phichit asks, already reaching for the container. “You clearly got the mango.” Chris grimaces, and Phichit laughs.

“Phichit, love, I need you to be completely honest with me.”

Phichit’s eyebrows rise, and he gulps down his most recent mouthful of sticky rice. “...yes?” He seems worried, and Chris leans into it, averting his eyes and pouting out his lower lip slightly.

“I just… need to know…” He pauses for a dramatic sigh, but struggles to keep down a smile when Phichit shifts things around and takes his hand reassuringly.

“What’s the matter? Do we need to leave?”

Chris looks into Phichit’s eyes, trying to project mournfulness. Phichit meets his gaze, eyebrows tilted in concern.

“Phichit… just how bad is my accent?”

There’s a split second of confused silence, and then Phichit bats him on the arm.

“You asshole, you had me worried!” he says, but he’s smiling, and Chris grins and smooches his cheek as apology.

“I’m serious, though, the salesperson heard one word that I said and switched immediately to English. Just how bad am I at this?”

Phichit elects to take a large bite of sticky rice rather than answering. Chris raises a single eyebrow.

“That bad, huh?”

“I mean,” Phichit says around his mouthful. Then he stops. “It’s just… strong. Is all.”

Chris laughs. “Alright, alright, I get it! I get it. You’ll just have to give me some private tutoring, I guess,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Phichit smirks back, running the tips of his fingers along Chris’ sternum. “Hm, well, I’m sure such a thing could be arranged.” Then he pats Chris’ chest, turns, and saunters off. Chris dreamily watches him go for a second before realizing—

“Hey! I wanted that mango!”

 

They spend several more hours wandering through the stalls of JJ Market, stopping frequently to look over wares while Phichit deflects any overly aggressive vendors. Finally, though, Phichit gasps.

“What is—ah.” Hanging up for display a few stalls down is a tank top with _The King and the Skater_ designs on it. It doesn’t look like any of the ones Phichit already owns. Chris can practically _feel_ the want coming off Phichit in waves. He grabs Phichit’s hand, squeezes, and starts moving towards it.

“Oh, no,” Phichit says, entirely serious. “Nuh-uh. I am _not_ paying white people prices for that. You stay put _right here_ , I’m going to go _barter._ ”

Stunned, but smiling, Chris obeys.

Phichit stalks off, and Chris watches in awe as his boyfriend uses charm, charisma, and what looks like several selfies to get his prized shirt. No money changes hands, but Phichit does sign several slips of paper.

He comes back looking very smug. “They gave me the shirt for free if I promo’d them on my Insta and Line,” he explains. “And a few autographs.”

Chris smiles warmly, his chest feeling too tight with affection. God, he can’t wait to marry this man.

* * *

As Phichit returns from the bathroom, heading towards where Chris and the twins are waiting, a glimmer of gold catches the corner of his eye. The jewelry shop is lit brightly, red walls inviting and the wares inside glitter under the lights. It really does have some nice—

_...hmm._

* * *

It’s early evening after a rainstorm, and the sky is unusually clear and free from oppressive humidity. Chris and Phichit are enjoying the lightness of the air, sitting out on the 20th-floor balcony of Phichit’s family’s house. The small table between them is filled with fruit and rice and basil chicken and something else too spicy for Chris to even dream of trying, and lit by a string of fairy lights that winds around the balcony railing.

This far up, the sounds of cars and motorcycles are muted. They don’t have music playing, either, just the gentle swish of the breeze as it passes through and ruffles their hair.

Phichit looks like he’s glowing. After a few weeks in Thailand, his skin is well and truly bronzed again, dark and smooth and soft and gorgeous. His silky hair reflects the myriad shades of the fairy lights, and the corners of his eyes are crinkled as he smiles at Chris while all but inhaling his somtum.

Chris’ hand brushes the pocket where he’s got the ring stored. Like it has been the last five times he’s checked, the velvet box is still there.

Waiting.

Because… Chris is scared. Which is ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, because Phichit is amazing and one of his best friends and he loves him completely and entirely and is totally ready to spend the rest of his life with him but—

“You okay?”

Chris startles back into the present and the careful consideration of Phichit’s soft grey eyes. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m good. Just… thinking.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Mm. Not really,” Chris lies. “Just the usual.”

“Ah. You thinking about work again?” It’s nearing the end of their stay in Bangkok, now; in a few days, Chris will fly back out to Geneva to meet with a pair of ice dancers who want to spice up their choreography mid-season, and then it’s off to Russia for a personal favor to Victor, which, knowing Victor, is probably going to involve choreographing something intensely lovey-dovey for him and Yuuri to skate to. There’s also a number of people who are already looking forward to next season, and Chris promised to help Josef with a few of the younger skaters at the rink, and—well. There’s plenty for Chris to think about, really.

“Something like that,” he says instead. Phichit looks away for a moment, and Chris could swear he looks worried. Or scared. Chris is about to ask when Phichit turns back to him, his features set.

“I’ve also been thinking,” he says, and then pauses.

“About?” Chris prompts after a second.

Phichit takes a deep breath. “About us.”

Then, while Chris watches, frozen, Phichit gets out of his chair, pulls something out of his pocket, and kneels down next to Chris. His face is open and guileless when he looks up; Chris’ heart is stuttering heavily in his chest while Phichit smiles nervously.

“About us, and our relationship, and… how I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and grow old with you, and—” Phichit opens his hand. In his palm is an elegant golden band, thin and simple, just like Chris likes it. “Christophe Giacometti, will you marry me?”

Chris is, of course, already crying, tears streaming down his face even as he laughs.

“Yes, yes, absolutely, Phichit, I—” Chris breaks off, tucking a hand into his pocket and pulling out the small box. He flicks it open with an ease born of fidgeting with it constantly every second Phichit is no longer by his side, revealing the ring he’d selected. It’s a bit more ornate, studded with a few small gems on the one side. They glitter fetchingly.

Phichit stares at the ring, mouth open in shock, and then up at Chris. “You…?”

“Phichit Chulanont,” Chris says, as solemnly as he can manage with his nose now all stuffed up. “Will you marry me?” Phichit doesn’t cry, just stares at the box and then at Chris. Then he blinks, and the spell is broken, and he’s laughing.

Chris doesn’t think he’s ever heard a nicer sound.

“Of course I will,” he says. “Of course I will.” It’s Chris who reaches down and wipes the few tears from Phichit’s cheeks, but it’s Phichit who gets up and places himself in Chris’ lap, and Phichit who kisses him first, tender and loving.

“So,” Chris says, after a few minutes of blissful making out. Phichit’s smiling at him, and between that and his own smile, Chris feels giddy with emotion. “Does this mean we’re engaged?”

Phichit shimmies back so he can hold out the hand with the ring. “Not until you put it on.”

Chris holds out his hand, smiling at Phichit, who inhales sharply when he realizes what Chris means for him to do. Chris can only just feel Phichit’s slight tremor as he slides the ring onto Chris’ finger, because Chris is also shaking.

The ring fits perfectly.

Chris is awestruck for several moments, holding out his hand in wonder. The soft gold all but glows under the fairy lights, beautiful as the man who gave it to him.

“Wow. Thank you, Phichit.” Phichit gives him a quick kiss, then bounces.

“My turn!” He holds out his hand, and Chris brings it up to press a kiss to the knuckles before sliding on the ring. He twists it a little, making sure the stones are facing up and out, for everyone to see. When he looks up at Phichit, he sees his own awe reflected there.

“I really am the luckiest man in the world.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s me,” Phichit says, eyes not moving from the ring. Chris gives him another second or two, then tucks his finger under Phichit’s chin, urging him to look up. Their eyes meet, and warmth diffuses every corner of Chris’ body.

He leans in for the kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers, when they break apart again. “I love you so much. And I’m so glad that we—that you—”

“I love you, too. And Christophe,” Phichit says, cutting him off. His hands come up to cup Chris’ face. “I’m _never_ gonna give you up.”

**Author's Note:**

> minor clarification on a point: we're saying that phichit in bangkok in canon was him during the offseason, and then during the season he went back to detroit to continue training with celestino. ciao ciao seems to have a lot of skaters so up and moving to bangkok when he's got a rink and everything in detroit seems like a bit of a stretch, and thus,
> 
> anyways, thanks for reading ^^ someone asked us while writing wktg to 'let them fick', so here you go! them fick!!


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